


Stardust and Courage

by liyumpeyn



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Drug Use, Fluff and Smut, Harry is sad, M/M, Marijuana, angel - Freeform, louis is an angel, you know the drill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 09:53:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6561745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liyumpeyn/pseuds/liyumpeyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When he looks at Louis now he sees things he hadn’t noticed before. His hands are more calloused than one would at first think, this harshness to his face that Harry would expect from someone who has seen things past their time. There’s a faint scar Harry can see that races from halfway down his neck to his chest and disappears down into his singlet. He’s flawless apart from that, skin radiant and face soft near his eyes and mouth where those harsh features just barely clash."</p><p>Or:/ Louis is the guardian angel Harry doesn't deserve but always needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stardust and Courage

**Author's Note:**

> This is part 1 of this work that I have been writing for months and months and months. I really need a beta so message me here or at liyumpeyn.tumblr.com!

The sun dips low on the horizon, carving shapes against the city blocks and skyscrapers, ember red halos around their brick walls and glass windows. Harry tilts his head back against the bathtub, feels the sweaty skin of his shoulders press against the cold porcelain while the rest of his body submerges rib deep in water. The air in the room is heady and every time Harry breathes in its twice as difficult as breathing out. While others might find it claustrophobic, he finds it to be a sanctuary. 

On the floor there's an empty orange peel. The taste of orange is still fresh on Harry's tongue and the damp fingers that tap against the rim of his bathtub are still sticky with juice. The scent is perhaps what Harry would find claustrophobic, this bitter bite against the smell of honey his bath is giving off. When he lifts one hand off the side of the tub it feels heavy and even heavier still when he submerges it in the water to wash off. 

By now sweat is dripping down his neck, creeping down his forehead and past his eyes until it catches around his ears, chin, slides down his cheekbones. The sun is casting an orange glow about the white bathroom and rainbows are being caught at odd angles against the wall. From his seventeenth storey bathroom Harry can see the entire city. He can see Farwell Park to his left, Seven Tower straight ahead and Arnold Bridge to the far, far right. 

That was if he was caring to look. Right now his eyes are shut, curls draping over the outside of the claw foot bathtub and toes pressed up against the other side of the tub. He has nowhere to be at this kind of hour.

Beyond the bathroom his apartment is still. There's a static buzz from his tv, the dull flicker of the black lamp in the corner of his bedroom and the wilt of his plants on his balcony. Every now and then the neighbours cat will pounce onto his balcony and flick her tail at Harry until he tugs the glass door open in just his pants and lets her inside. She roams around for hours on end, napping by his heater or knocking over the piles and piles of books Harry has. She leaves when Harry tries to pat her, reaching slender fingers out and just brushing her ginger fur before she's scampering off out a window and sashaying back to her owners balcony. Then the apartment is plunged into the same static silence Harry has built up.

Once the sun has dipped down past the apartment and the bathroom is draped in a blue darkness that casts gray shadows against Harry's face and makes his fingers tinge purple, he climbs out of the bath tub. He stands outside the tub dripping for a few seconds, hands fidgeting with his hair as he watches the drops of water race down the drain. There's silence save for the soft suck of water when he pulls the plug out of the bath tub and the water is tugged down along with the creamy foam of his bath bomb and all that remains is a ring of soap scum.

His skin starts to prickle as the heat is leached out of the room and soft hairs raise against his arms and stand up against his neck until he tugs a towel off the heat rack and wraps it around his shoulders. 

He paces lazily to his bedroom, letting his feet track wet footprints across the wood as he flicks on the lamp beside his bed and drops the towel toby his feet.

In the moments before he puts on a shirt he glances out the window to where a dove sits against the window sill. Its wings are a stark white contrast against the quickening blackness of the sky outside and Harry would have taken a photo of it should it not have flown away so quickly.

He's dressed in five minutes, hair pulled up into a gentle, damp bun and his shirt resting easily against his slender frame before he covers it up with a black jacket and tugs on his boots.

That's the first night he sees Louis. It's the first night he sees the boy standing at the end of his apartment corridor, wings tucked behind himself just as white as the doves. He blinks and the boy's gone. When he climbs into the lift he sees him again, in the mirror as he turns to fix his hair. They make eye contact for a fleeting seconds and Harry just makes out tanned skin and blue eyes before he blinks... and he's gone again. Harry tries not to take notice of it, brushes it off as tiredness while a part of his brain blames it on loneliness.

He's ambling into a pub ten minutes later with a £20 note in his back pocket and his hands shoved deep in his jacket. The security guard asks him for ID and he fishes his wallet out of his pocket and flashes him his driver's license. The guard glances skeptically between the photo and Harry's face before he nods and Harry shoulders past him to the main bar area. Within three minutes he's on his second pint and he's down £6. Everything starts to get louder, blurrier, busier from then on and by the time he's on his third pint he has hands on his waist and a mouth at his neck. 

They're leaving bruises Harry won't notice until tomorrow and their hands are creeping under his shirt in the back of the booth Harry has found himself in. Harry hadn't even gotten to see their face properly, could just make out beard scruff against the shell of his ear and dark blue eyes when they pull away to shout something at Harry. He looks nice, kind, harmless and Harry just nods. He doesn't know what he's agreeing to but the next thing he knows a hand is closing around his wrist and he's being dragged out of the pub.

3 pints was well enough to get Harry fucked up, ever the light drinker, and when he steps out of the darkness of the pub he finds the bright street lights and concrete to be too much. He tucks his face against the guys jacket, smells citrus and musk and is just reminded of home. He sees Louis again a few seconds later. He’s closer now, close enough to touch. Then the guy he's with is leading him off the curb at a crossing and Harry shouts as a car rounds the corner.

There's suddenly hands on his shoulders and stomach, small but strong as they shove him backwards and onto the footpath. Harry sees a flurry of feathers and brown hair and then he trips backwards over the curb of the footpath and another hand is catching the back of his head before it smacks against the concrete. The guy topples as well and for a fleeting moment Harry thinks he was the one that pushed him back but when his hands touch Harry's face they don't feel soft enough, aren't small enough to be the hands that pushed him away from the car.

"Are you okay?" The man asks and Harry nods, staring up at the sky as his grip loosens from the back of the man's jacket. He feels like being sick and tells the man as much before he tugs himself up and retches down the drain by his feet. He expects the guy to leave, to tell him he thinks he's disgusting and walk off down the road. Instead he pulls the curls away from Harry's face, rubs his back and uses his sleeve to wipe at the corner of Harry's mouth.

"Thankyou." Harry mumbles before he's retching again and he watches the bile go down the drain. The guy just nods, pressing his cool fingers against Harry's neck until his heart rate has slowed to a steady thump against his ribcage. Then he feels like crying and by now he's surprised the dude is still hanging around him at all.

"Do you want me to take you home?" 

"What's your name?" Harry asks instead of replying, wiping at his mouth to swipe the vomit off his bottom lip and chin. The guy smiles at him, holding out his hand for a handshake as he tells Harry his name is Jack and asks again if he wants help home.

"You look like you could use some help and I really don't mind." Harry forgets about the other boy for the rest of the night's, only reminded of him again right before Jack is about to fuck him and the box of condoms on his bedside table knocks over and Harry realises Jack's forgotten to put one on. He's sure he sees a hand knock the box over and slide a condom out, sure he sees those same white wings near his bed before Jack is ripping a condom open with his teeth and is rolling it down himself. 

He's a rough fuck and Harry loves it, clawing at his shoulders and pressing his fingers against the bruises Jack sucks from his neck to his belly button. His head knocks against the wall and Harry is surprised a hand doesn't come out to protect his skull from smacking against it every time Jack thrusts in deep. Jack comes with a shout after a few minutes then spends some time jerking Harry off until his cock twitches and he comes with an equally as loud shout with his hand clutching his blue sheets and thick white ribbons shooting up over the bruises on his tummy.

Jack searches all through Harry's bathroom for a wash cloth, coming back with the same one Harry had used in his bath earlier and mopping up the come on Harry's tummy. He throws the washcloth somewhere in Harry's room, curling into bed beside Harry and holding his hand against Harry's stomach when he curls up to be the little spoon. There's silence for a few moments before Jack feels what he thinks are tears against his arm and he turns Harry over to face him.

"Hey, hey, hey. Why are you crying?" Jack whispers, brushing his hand under Harry's eyes. 

"Because no-one ever stays." He mumbles and Jack tuts, pressing a tiny kiss to Harry's forehead as Harry places his hand against the back of Jack's where it rests against his cheek. Jack tells him he'll stay, promises to make him pancakes in the morning when Harry looks at him like he doesn't believe him.

"With fruit and sugar?" Harry asks, nuzzling into Jack's touch as he laughs and massages the tension out of Harry's shoulders until the furrow of his brows loosens and he's laughing when Jack rolls his eyes and nods, shoving Harry back around so he can curl against his back and whisper against his ear that he can have whatever he wants.

Just before Harry falls asleep he feels a draft and lazily opens his eyes, half expecting it to be Jack leaving. Instead he finds the same boy sitting in the armchair in his bedroom reading Harry's copy of Eat, Pray, Love and chewing on one of Harry's oranges. When he blinks he's gone yet again but the copy of Eat, Pray, Love is left with one of it's pages dog eared and a half eaten orange balances against the arm of the chair.

\----------

Jack stays true to his word, waking Harry up with a plate of pancakes, strawberries laid out in a fan on the top most one and icing sugar shaken delicately across the stack. Harry cries again, tells Jack he's not very good at one night stands. Jack agrees, sitting beside Harry on his mattress and telling him all about the weird one night stands he has had. Jack is half way through telling him about a girl who once tried to peg him when Harry practically inhales a strawberry and it gets caught in his windpipe. 

Before Jack has time to react there's a hand thumping Harry on his back and Harry recognises it as _him_ , just wonders who the fuck _he_ even is but doesn't have time to ponder on it too long when the strawberry comes flying back out and lands on the floor with a little _thump_. Harry laughs as Jack scrambles to rub his back, hands him a glass of water from beside his mattress and watches as Harry gulps it down. 

"Are you alright, mate?" Jack asks and Harry presses a kiss to his cheek, tells him he's fine and he's too sweet. Jack blushes, grabs hold of Harry's shoulder and pushes him down against the mattress. Harry goes down easily, taking the time to move his half finished pancakes from his lap to beside the bed before Jack is pulling down his pants and sucking bruises into his thighs. 

Harry likes it when Jack sucks the head of his dick into his mouth and presses his thumb into the bruises he's left on Harry's thighs while Harry reminds him around a moan that Jack is really, really bad at one night stands. Jack resurfaces from Harry's crotch to tell him he only stays for the ones he likes and when Harry laughs and twists his head to look out the window he seems the boy staring in. His arms are resting against the windowsill, chin resting in his hands, just watching. When he makes eye contact with him the boy ducks down or disappears or maybe both at once.

Jack leaves half an hour later with a kiss to Harry's red lips and a hand slipping a sliver of paper with his number on it into Harry's palm. Harry gives him a proper kiss before he closes the door, whispering into his mouth he'll be sure to call before he shuts the door with a click behind him and rests against it.

"I know you're here." Harry says out loud once he hears the elevator ding down the corridor. He's silent for a few seconds, taking in the dust motes drifting around his balcony door and the mug of tea sat untouched that Jack had made him. The silence is broken by a figure emerging from his kitchen, another one of his oranges in hand and Eat, Pray, Love open on the dog eared page in his other.

"Does it feel good? Is that why you do it?" The boy asks quietly, looking up from the book for a moment to look at Harry. He doesn't disappear when he blinks and Harry wets his lips before he slips his keys into the bowl by his front door and makes his way closer to the boy. The boy retracts a few feet, slinking back into the darkness of Harry's kitchen.

"Does what feel good?" Harry asks back.

"Drinking, sex, the other things you were doing with him." The guy responds, leaning against the doorframe of his kitchen and setting the book on a nearby counter. Harry's not surprised he's here, has moved on from surprise to confusion in this stage of his life.

"They all feel good, I like it. Have you... Have you never done anything?" He's surprised when he shakes his head, a no. He's not that bad looking, has striking blue eyes and lovely pink lips, sunkissed skin and sharp features. He looks like something Harry would pick up in a club, take home to fuck and never see again. 

"No-one sees me, Harry. I tried myself once, when I saw you do it a few days ago, but nothing much happened." Harry bypasses the last few comments, mind on a loop of _how does he know my name_. Then he stutters it out, suddenly shy when Louis smiles and breaks another piece off the orange in his hands and flutters his wings behind himself.

He tells him he knows a lot of things, know about his family and friends or lack thereof and all about how he goes drinking and takes men home all the time and cries a lot. 

"Well, what's your name?" Harry questions, walking past Louis to sit on one of the kitchen counters, feet tucked up to his chest as he holds a hand out.

"Louis."He replies. Louis glances at the orange in his hand, reaching out and placing it in Harry's outstretched hand. Harry knows Louis gets the same feeling when their fingers brush against each other. To Harry it's the feeling of driving down a highway at night, like smoke curling around a hand as someone smokes a cigarette and all at once like the first sun after winter. If he could give it a colour it'd be the orange of a sky at sunset but its sound would be rain on a hot tin roof. 

"Louis..." Harry says when Louis curls his fingers away with a small gasp. It sounds nice, rolls off his tongue as easily as his own name. Louis nods, watching Harry's deft fingers as they peel pieces of orange and bring them up to his open mouth, juice catching on his lips and tacking to his fingers. They share the orange in silence until Harry asks him why he's here.

"Because you can't look after yourself." Louis states simply, taking the orange peel from Harry once it's finished and chucking it in the bin under the sink. It's Harry's turn to nod them, jumping off the counter and pulling the fridge open. He finds some sour yoghurt, throwing it in the bin and then chugging half a carton of orange juice. He offers some to Louis who just wrinkles his nose, wings hitching up a bit.

"Can I touch them?" Harry is reaching his fingers out to touch the downy feathers before Louis can say yes or no. For the record he would have said yes, would say yes to anything Harry asks him. Harry isn't sure how much Louis feels it when his fingers press against the soft white feathers, if the way Louis' wings shift under Harry's touch is reflexive or if Louis is tickled. He tries again, stroking one finger under a feather before Louis is laughting and shoves at Harry's arm.

"What was that?" Louis wheezes. Harry decides that out of all the small amounts of times he's seen Louis, this one is his favourite. The morning sun is now throwing brilliant orange and gold light about the kitchen and if Harry looked properly he'd see the soft glow about Louis' wings, one that matched his eyes and encompassed him in the warmth he had so far found in Louis. If Louis knew what it meant to say it, he'd say the same about Harry. He'd tell him he liked the gold flecks of sunrise in his eyes and how pink his lips were and how Harry's hair was ridiculously messy but he didn't want him to fix it.

"That... That was me tickling you, I think." Harry shrugs, leaning back against the counter behind himself. He scratches absentmindedly at his tummy as Louis glances around the kitchen.

"Tickling," Louis whispers, reaching back and stroking his wing where Harry had touched it. "I like it." He tells Harry, facing him with glee in his eyes and a crooked smile that sends a happy little skip into Harry's heartbeat. He's not phased Louis is here, isn't phased by all that much anymore unless something entirely drastic happened. Harry files angels popping up under "mildly exciting", where later on he'd find himself filing it under "life changing".

They spend another hour in the kitchen and Harry learns a lot about Louis. He learns he's not from heaven, nor is he from hell. If Louis could find the words to describe it it would be a place between Harry's world and the fourth star from the moon, somewhere entirely unreachable and yet just around the corner. 

When Harry asks Louis if he's ever been mad, he gets confused.

"Have you ever just...looked at someone and felt like being sick or like you don't want to look at them or something?" Harry asks. By now the sun is high in the sky and Harry has placed Jack's number in his flowerpot beside his kitchen window, stuck up in the dirt so only his name still peeks out. Louis tells him honestly that he still doesn't understand that, how your stomach would feel bad just by seeing a face or how looking or hearing of someone gave you a bad feeling. 

When Harry asks if he has ever loved someone Louis grasps that concept quickly. He understands what the little thump in his heart means when he sees something he likes and tells Harry he gets it now when he looks at him. Harry blushes, whispering to Louis that sometimes you don't mean to say things aloud and he thinks that maybe Louis didn't mean to say that.

A peachy blush creeps against Louis' cheeks and he flickers away before Harry can tell him that it's just a bout of mild embarrassment. He doesn't see Louis for the rest of the day and doesn't really mind.

\---------

The next Tuesday Harry’s paycheck from the bookstore comes in. He spends half of it on a strawberry blunt, this concoction of two different types of weed and a strawberry filter all wrapped in strawberry paper and flaming cherry red at the end. Everything about him is relaxed, from the tingle in his toes to the hand lazily picking at the rug beneath him. He’s on his back, fan on high above him, tv off as well as the lights. The cat came in an hour earlier and lay down beside Harry on the floor, ginger tail curling delicately around his thigh as he tried desperately not to touch her.

He thought it was a double standard that she should be able to touch him when he could barely run his fingers through her fur without her running out the door. Sometimes he wondered where she came from and how on earth she got onto Harry’s balcony when he was this high up. He also wondered who let their cat wander around the outside of an apartment block that had over 20 level of flats rising up into the sky.

None the less this particular evening he appreciated the cat curled up beside him and the smoke clouding around his head. He doesn't even bat an eyelid when he feels Louis' presence in the room, doesn't shift when Louis bends down over him smiling.

"What's that?" Louis asks, reaching a hand out to touch the end of the blunt. Harry doesn’t respond, just watches as the tendrils of smoke snake around Louis’ hand and he plucks it from between Harry’s lips.

“Onism.” Harry explains tiredly. Louis cocks his head to the side, sitting down with crossed legs beside Harry. “I can’t be more places and I can’t see more things without going there. Onism, The frustration of being stuck in one body that can only be in one place at one time.”

Louis nods, golden hair falling into his face as he places the blunt back between Harry’s lips. “You learned that today, yes?”

“Yes.” 

“Do you feel that now?”

“Yes.” Louis doesn’t ask more questions after that, just lays on his side beside Harry who puffs away at his blunt until the smoke is blurting and he taps it out on the hardwood floor. Everything tingles now, Harry’s fingertips and toes, jittering knees and a hammering heartbeat. Louis has stayed still beside Harry, just watching his face. Harry has stayed much the same, watching the fan on its constant loop on the ceiling and wondering when his life turned into such a shithole.

“Her name’s Magda.” Louis says suddenly as Harry places a hand on his own stomach, pinky finger just touching the cats back.

“Magda.” Harry repeats, turning his head to look at the ginger cat. Sometimes he wishes his life was so simple he could wander into strangers flats and do whatever he pleased. But then he thinks about how he likes a lot of aspects of his life. He likes reading and writing and smoking and now he likes being with Louis. “Did she tell you that?” Harry asks, turning his head to look at Louis who has been inching ever closer.

“She did.” Louis reaches an arm over Harry and for a second Harry thinks he’s going to hug him, which he wouldn’t mind at all. Instead he scratches the cat's forehead, right between her eyes. His arm is a heavy weight against Harry’s stomach and Harry wants to reach out and touch it too, he wants to touch a lot of things. Louis’ wings just nudge Harry’s chin and he leans into them, blinking against the soft pink glow they give off. Louis smiles at him and Harry smiles back, one side of his mouth cocking up further than the other when Louis’ eyes catch in the setting sunlight and he blinks three times against the glare. 

He’s not really had the opportunity to look at Louis all that well lately but now he does and his eyes are so striking and lips such a lovely pink and his build is so wonderful that Harry almost wants to lean over and kiss him. Almost.

“Have you ever had sex?” Harry says suddenly, reaching a hand down to play with the feathers at the bottom of Louis’ wings. Louis shakes his head, scratching beneath Magdas chin. There’s a pang of jealousy in Harry's chest that Magda is so pliant with Louis when she barely lets him touch her but he brushes it aside for a little flutter in his stomach when Louis accidentally rests his chin against Harry's’ tummy.

“Angels don’t have sex with other angels, Harry. You asked me that the other day, too.” Louis laughs, resting his face entirely on Harry’s tummy because apparently angels don’t have personal boundaries either. He doesn’t entirely know what comes over him when he reaches a hand out to touch Louis’ face, just knows he’s had enough of not being able to touch, touch, touch, just blames it on the weed and the throb at centre of his throat.

He’s not cold like Harry thought an angel would be. His cheeks are flushed to the touch, this wonderful gold radiance about them when he smiles at Harry. When Harry touches the little crinkles by his mouth and slides a finger against the creases by his nose and lips all he feels is smooth, warm skin.

Louis shuts his eyes, rose coloured eyelids fluttering as Harry strokes a sure hand down across his eyebrow.

“Do angels kiss?” Harry's dying to know.

“Yes, they kiss everyone.” Louis mumbles. Harry thinks he’s tired if his laboured breath and loose grip on his shirt is anything to go by. 

“Do boy angels kiss boy angels?” 

 

“Everyone.” Louis repeats, blinking his eyes open to look at Harry. Harry just nods, tilting his head back and keeping one hand just resting on Louis’ face, feeling his warmth and presence like an embrace from a loved one. Just his company feels like a kiss in itself, like Louis is feeding Harry goods vibes he doesn’t want to let go of. Harry likes it, has starved himself of this sort of delicate attention so long he was only just beginning to crave it.

\----------

On Friday it rains. It rains all through Thursday night and into Friday day and it leaks into Harry’s apartment. It comes in through the damp cold when he presses his feet to the tiles of his bathroom after climbing out of the bath at midday. It is there when he stands by the kitchen window with a mug of tea in just his pants and his hand leaves marks against the cool glass. Most of all it is there when Harry climbs into his bed at 3pm and watches it batter the high window in his bedroom. 

He’s not seen Louis in a few days and it feels like the entire apartment is just aching for his presence, like he brings a sort of life to the house that Harry alone can’t provide. He likes to think the silence in his apartment is beautiful but the reality is that it terrifies Harry at night. The silence terrifies him in ways Harry can’t even imagine. It’s loneliness and heartache, longing and the intricate sort of isolation Harry has woven for himself in all his 22 years of life. 

He finds it present in the stack of empty wine bottles beside his tv, the piles of books sat with dust coatings around his house, the wilting plant hanging over his balcony, the steady drip of his shower-head.

If Harry was better at poetry he would write about how the silence makes him feel. He would write about how sometimes it gives him goosebumps and makes his hair stand on end, sometimes the silence makes his heart clench so hard in his chest he runs out of breath and it makes his fingertips tingle as they chase after the company he so desperately needs. Most afternoons it leaves him like he is now, a spineless shell of a human.

Harry pulls his hair up into a bun, three little curls sticking to the damp sweat at the base of his hairline and tacking to the skin like spider webs. He’s so achingly tired of everything, showing in the bags under his eyes and the way he is constantly picking at his fingernails, violet jumper shifting off his shoulders as he sits in his mountain range of sheets in just his pants and the jumper.

When he hears a light tapping on the door he thinks for a moment of who it could possibly be. His first thought is his mum, then his dad then finally Jack before his mind slows down and settles on _Louis_.

“Come in.” Harry says softly, watching the brass knob turn before Louis steps quietly in, shutting the door behind himself with a soft click. He says nothing, just steps closer to the bed until his feet push against the soft mattress and lets himself collapse over until he is on his knees at the foot of Harry’s bed. His wings droop slowly, lazily as he crawls up the bed quietly and he is resting just in front of Harry. Harry tucks his knees up to his chest, feet overlapping one another and Louis peers at him curiously.

In that moment Harry can count on his fingers the things that are keeping him alive. Louis rounds him off to an even five and when he brushes forward against Harry’s legs he almost wants to make him both five _and_ six. He has such a magnificent presence, one that comes from the curve of his face, his soft belly, the roundness of his legs all the way down to his barefeet where they’re curled up beneath him, feathers of his wings just brushing the soles.

“Why do you need me?” Louis gently queries, brushing a thumb under Harry’s eye and all the way along his cheekbone, moving right into his space and resting in much the same position as Harry. He’s so much gentler than Harry, who seems, at least to himself, to be all rough edges and angled corners and heavy weights where Louis is soft and round and light. When his hand moves to cup Harry’s jaw, Harry’s head falls pliant, resting in the palm of his hand and Louis strokes a gentle finger across his weary face.

“I don’t need you, Lou.” Harry murmurs, lips brushing against Louis’ wrist. Louis’ eyes soften and he leans in until his forehead rests against Harry’s. Between them he parts Harry’s hands where they had been wrapped around his legs, pushing him backwards softly until he falls against the wall and rolls his head to the side, submissive and willing.

“You do, that’s why I’m here. I’m here, Harry.” Louis says. He says it with such sincerity that Harry forgets the rain outside for a moment. Instead he rolls his head back up and slides a hand up to cup Louis’ side as he hovers over Harry. His eyes are unreadable...unreachable and untamed, staring up at Louis and calling out for _something_. Louis can’t figure out what he wants and so swings his legs over Harry’s until he is on all fours above him, wings spread out gracefully on either side of his body. 

“You’re here.” Harry parrots, blinking carefully up at Louis. Louis’ mouth quirks at the corners like he wants to smile. Instead he thumbs over the corner of Harry’s mouth and collapses against his chest, feeling his heartbeat in the opposite side of his chest. Harry feels like his chest is being squeezed until all the air is being knocked out of him but he doesn’t mind, just squeezes Louis closer because he’s the one he doesn’t mind knocking the air out of him.

Harry throws his blanket over the two of them, indulging in Louis when he leans up to let his wings free of the cotton. He indulges Louis when he combs his hand through Harry’s curls and the storm outside makes the window shake. He is still indulging him an hour later when the storm has settled to a drizzle against the window and Louis has stopped fidgeting against his chest, allowing himself to touch and be touch. His hands are still felt all over Louis’ skin, caught in his hair and along his shoulders and down to his navel and hips. Harry still feels the traces of Louis at the corner of his mouth and the nape of his neck and across his chest, feels his fingertips and the palm of his hand like a branding iron blistering his skin.

“Do you feel okay now?” Louis asks once Harry has almost begun to drift off to sleep. Harry so desperately wants to say yes, that he has everything in order and there aren’t storm clouds racing in circles in his mind. But that’d be a lie and he doesn’t think he could burden that upon Louis.

So Harry answers truthfully. “No...”

Louis stays for 3 days straight after that.

\---------

Harry finds himself alone on Saturday night and the persistent drip of his tap is boring him. He tugs his tattered shoes on by his door before he can think too much, pocketing a bottle of whiskey and walking the sixteen flights down to the apartment lobby.

"Have a nice night, Harry." His neighbour, Mark, calls. Harry should respond, should say something like 'you too' or 'have a good one'. Instead he keeps on walking. With his hand buried deep in his hoodie and head bent low he weaves silently through the backstreets of his neighbourhood. He knows the area like the back of his hand, could pinpoint an exact location from a small fragment of a photograph. Most late-night walks are spent spotting new graffiti in the back alleys before he inevitably wanders into a pub and is fucked and well screwed over by 2am.

He's gotten so used to hearing the gentle slide of someone creeping out of bed, of the weight of another human being lifted off the mattress as he lies there and his front door shutting with a click when he pushes his face into his pillow and wills himself to sleep until he'll wake up to be late for work tomorrow.

Harry tugs his hood off as he near the pub, unscrewing the top of the bottle of whiskey and downing the whole thing in one go before chucking it into a cardboard box by the side of the road. He's not usually one for littering but fuck it, everything's going to shit, anyway.

"Hey, pretty boy!" It's a catcall in the dark, comparative to a wolf whistle or a hand grabbing his ass as he walks past a back alley. But he follows it into the night, letting the jeers of a group of men act as a lantern as he scurries into the narrow laneway and catches sight of the burnt out street lamp above them.

The only light in front of him is the orange glow of cigarettes and he's being offered one before he can make out faces. He takes it with a "thankyou", letting a stranger run their hands over his hips as he takes drag after drag after drag and feels his fingertips go numb. He lets them slip their hand into the back of his pants, rising up on his toes as they run a dry finger over his hole and he hands the cigarette back.

"Do you want to come home with me?" It's grunted into his ear as his chin scratches against a person's scruff and he inhales the smell of tobacco and cheap cologne. He sighs, smoke ghosting out of this mouth as he lets himself fall into the man's chest and he smiles into their neck, draping his arms loosely over their shoulders as they grab a fistful of his ass.

He wakes up sad the next morning in his own bed, with bite marks by his thighs and finger marks on his neck. He pushes against them as he stares at himself in the mirror, letting the lump in his throat well up until he can hardly breathe and he drags himself back to his bed before he can cry. 

He lets himself fall asleep to the slow build up of rain as day breaks, having woken up when even the birds were still asleep and the moon was letting the sun sleep just that little bit longer. When it finally breaks the horizon, as a peachy glow that paints the whole room and catches every splotch of rain in the sunshower, Harry's got his head buried under his pillow. Last night's shirt is stuck to his back despite the cold draft in the room and his ankle socks are cutting fine lines into his skin.

\---------------------

“I’ve had to up the price, H, sorry.” Harry feels like someone just swept the rug out from under his feet. “I know, I know. I’m really sorry, bud.” 

Harry does the first thing he can think to do in a situation where the only dealer in town ups the price of his weed when he can barely afford groceries and so finds himself punching the brick wall behind Jeremy’s head, knuckles scraping against the rough cement in what’ll surely turn to bruises and scabs tomorrow.

“To what?” Harry whispers, pressing his face to Jeremy's neck and turning his palm flat against the wall, cornering Jeremy up against it. Hands come to rest on his hips, fingers struggling underneath the material while Harry breathes hotly down his neck.

“60.” Harry curls his fist against the brick, pressing his mouth to Jeremy’s hair. He bends his elbow, falling into Jeremy’s chest and feeling his chest rise and fall against his own. It’s the same staggered breathing, same erratic heartbeat he feels against the opposite side of his chest and he moves his fist from the brick wall to the back of Jeremy’s neck, fisting softly in the material of his hoodie.

“That’s fine. It’s fine.” Harry pushes his hand up the underside of the hood, tracing his fingers softly along the hem of the hood until Jeremy’s fingers are running up the sides of his torso. In his mind there is a constant loop of the smell of Louis’ skin and the feeling of _his_ fingers on his torso, soothing Harry to sleep. And _god_ it seems so familiar now, to have Louis’ hands stroke the hair off his forehead and his wings to cradle around Harry’s tired body when he pulls him in for a hug.

Jeremy’s fingers are calloused from years of storking guitar strings, skin pale and blue even under the orange street light outside his apartment and the sharp cut of his hip bones is as familiar to Harry’s as his own hips but it all feels _wrong_. Jeremy’s lips are scraping against the underside of his jaw and his hand is meeting Harry’s by his side, fingers slipping into one another. 

“Come inside.” He offers. Not a question, a statement. Harry nods, drawing himself away from Jeremy’s body and following him up the stairs. Jeremy fucks him that night, lowering Harry down on the bed and kissing all down Harry’s torso and he feels loved for the first time in a week. 

Jeremy lets him sleep the night away at his house, slipping a small baggy of weed into the back of Harry’s jeans as he lets him out the front door.

He feels dirty when he smokes it with Louis later that night, watching the way Louis’ eyes fog over and his hands comb through Harry’s hair over and over and over again. His nimble fingers scratch against his scalp as he cradles Harry between his legs, knees pressing into his shoulders as Harry stares up at him, joint hanging limply between his lips. Louis takes the joint from his lips, holding it between his thumb and forefinger before he takes a slow drag, staring down at the softness found in Harry’s eyes.


End file.
